The American War of Independece
by owncode
Summary: The Declaration of Independence arrived with its messenger as he spoke, placing the message on the table. Alfred felt its weight, knew it's power and in that moment, understood the gravity of what he was doing. He was obtaining freedom. Alfred would no longer be a bird in one of Arthur's cages, wings clipped and singing merrily. Today, that cage door would be forced open.
1. Prologue

Alfred Kirkland feared ghosts. That was well known among his human peers and fellow Nations. What only Arthur Kirkland knew of, however, was his intense fear of marmite. Alfred's phobia of the brown food had come from being left alone as a child. Well, that might sound wrong. Alfred had been a very curious child.

Ever since Arthur, Francis and Tino had encroached on his lands, the poor child had been curious as to who they were and where they came from. Also, if they had food. This lead to him being tempted into becoming one of their 'colonies.' Alfred hadn't known then what that meant, but he knew now. He regretted it, but didn't regret choosing Arthur. The British-American knew his older brother, Matthew, had been forced into Arthur's care and he bore it with dignity, but thoughts of leaving plagued him.

The poor boy had even tried to run away once. He didn't ever again. Alfred had been Arthur's golden child, his little ward. The apple of his eye. Alfred lavished in the attention. He loved to be wanted, needed, cared for, and praised. Arthur was not his big brother, nor was he his father, or his uncle, or his cousin. There was no familial love between them. America was England's colony and Alfred was the annoying kid friend of Arthur's.

Arthur had left him for a very long time. He had stayed with the two brothers until they were – physically – little over five years. Arthur didn't return for a very long time. That's when Alfred had grown fearful of marmite. As said, he was a curious child. So, one day, when the nanny was caring for Matthew – she often forgot about him until he was almost dying or the polar bear was on a rampage (it was the latter this time) – Alfred had gotten hungry.

As any good Briton would, the nanny had stocked the kitchen full of the appropriate British food. This category includes marmite. Alfred had been too short on time to cook himself something, and had seen the marmite. He had seen the brown paste and thought marmite might have been a fancy British name for chocolate sauce.

Thinking it would be sweet and delicious, Alfred promptly stuck a finger in the substance, giving himself a generous amount, and stuck the finger in his mouth. It tasted like death on a stick. Alfred had stiffened in shock before screaming and running to the backyard where he spat and cursed the substance out. Matthew and the nanny had laughed quite heartily as they saw Alfred scraping his tongue off, gurgling incomprehensibly in horror.

The British-American had never touched a drop of it since. Arthur returned when Alfred was almost fully grown. Alfred blessed whatever had made Arthur miss his awkward teenage years. The Briton had taught him how to properly eat marmite, but Alfred refused to touch the stuff.

That had been the 1760's. Now it was 1774, and Alfred was sitting in a chair, reminiscing his childhood, as Arthur bumbled about in the kitchen. As a plate of still-on-fire scones was placed in front of him, Alfred tried to put them out as Arthur spoke.

"I'd like you to come to an audience with the King with me today." It wasn't a request. "You will learn how real government works, you will not speak, you will listen. And say nothing of your bloody taxes."

Alfred paused and sat back, content to let the scones fry. His mood soured. Though, this could not be proven by his small frown. It was characteristic nowadays. Upset had rocked his country, torn through Alfred, and seared into his mind. The soured mood could only be seen by the slight creasing of his brow and the way his hands tightened on the arms of the chair.

"No. I will go if I have a voice about what goes on in my country," Alfred said firmly, not looking away from Arthur. He was a colony, but colonies did not deserve injustice. Everyone deserved equality and fairness, what standing they had in the world did not diminish that.

A blow landed on Alfred's cheek, snapping his head to the right. It stung, making Alfred's eyes water. "You're my bloody colony. You're my colonist, Alfred. You're a child still, and you don't know what's best. I do,'' Arthur said harshly, grabbing a hold of Alfred's jaw and wrenching the head so it faced him.

Alfred had provoked the pirate that still lurked inside Arthur. The one that demanded obedience, affection and gave no room for mutiny. The only thing is that Arthur no longer swore to his Jolly Rodger flag. Alfred almost wished he did, because then his only loyalty was to Arthur the Pirate, not Arthur the United Kingdom.

"God save the King," the Briton said harshly, grip tightening on Alfred's jaw.

Alfred knew he was supposed to repeat those words, was supposed to pledge his undying support for the United Kingdom, to thank Arthur for all he had done, for making Alfred into the man he was now. Instead, Alfred stood, almost knocking Arthur out of the way. He was taller than the Briton now. He was more than a colony. He was a country; he was an equal. He was no longer Alfred Kirkland. It was a split decision, but Alfred smiled and inhaled, preparing to speak.

"I, Alfred Freedom Jones, pledge my allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. And to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God. Indivisible. With liberty and justice for all."

The Declaration of Independence arrived with its messenger as he spoke, placing the message on the table. Alfred felt its weight, knew it's power and in that moment, understood the gravity of what he was doing.

He was obtaining freedom. Alfred would no longer be a bird in one of Arthur's cages, wings clipped and singing merrily. Today, that cage door would be forced open, and not by Arthur's free will, but by Alfred's. The American grasped the paper, feeling it's smoothness, the crisp feel of fresh paper, heard the rustling of the ribbon with a wax stamp around it. It was the seal that his Congress used, a seal of a balance in it, perfectly balanced. Liberty and justice would thrive in his land.

"The United States of America declares its independence from the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. I am moving back home, Arthur," Alfred said firmly, as he pressed the Declaration into Arthur's hands. As soon as the task was done, Alfred stepped back.

The weight on his shoulders, on his mind, on his stomach and the weight that held his feet to the ground felt heavier than ever. It made him wonder if his country was ready. Could they stand on their own two feet without Arthur and Britain to defend them?

It was then he noticed the quiet teen beside Alfred. While he was older, nation-wise, Matthew couldn't grow up physically. The personifications grew at the rate they wanted; at what stage they were in their life and how willing they were to move to the next step. Matthew wasn't ready to stop being a colony. It left him as a young man, not quite blooming into full maturity.

"Stand with me, Canada," Alfred pleaded, "I can take care of you. I won't treat you unfairly. We can be brothers, just like always." It was a subtle jab saying that by Matthew staying with Arthur, the two would no longer be brothers.

His brother had always been strong like Alfred, just a different kind. He never had the brute strength Alfred had, but he had the cunning and foresight that Alfred never would. The American liked to think he had inherited it from the pirate inside Arthur. Or maybe Francis was hiding a brain under all his lecherousness.

Matthew said quietly over Arthur's stunned silence, "Non. There are other allies you will take, but I will stand with Monsieur Kirkland, frère." The Canadian inclined his head a little as a way of goodbye, sadness shining in his eyes. No more was said as Matthew left the room. Or at least, Alfred thought he did. He couldn't be sure.

A deep chuckle escaped Arthur. It was half-mad, half-threatening. "King George will take this as a declaration of war."

"It is a declaration of independence, nothing more. Any acts of war will be on the United Kingdom's conscience."

"You cannot survive without me, little colony. You need my guidance. My care, my attention. You need me."

"I don't need you, Arthur. I need freedom."

"So be it, my Alfred. You will fall, kneeling before me by the end of this war, and you will beg me to take you back, to love you as I did before, and you will ask for punishment for this discretion which you have wrought upon yourself, if only it will make me forgive you."

Arthur sounded so assured. His every word painted a future Alfred did not like, that saddened him, that twisted in his stomach. The colony wondered if he could sound so majestic, so wonderfully knowing.

"You don't love me. You love the idea of me. The idea of a colony all to yourself because you know that Canada is, and always will be, Francis's. You love the idea that you can have such a devoted being. One that loves you with his entire heart and soul, who breathes you, who thinks of naught but you, who strives to be you is what you want. I am none of these things. Love for another is not such a thing. That is unrealistic and an obsession.

"I can be none of these things for you. I am the United States of America and I am shedding the chains you have placed upon me. On the battlefield, we shall fight. As equals. And I will win this war."

"Your Revolution will be crushed under the heel of my boot."

**AN:**

**So, at a little over 1,500 words, the prologue to my Revolution fic is complete. It's a little OOC, but it is different time periods, the speaking is, of course, different, and so are the characters. They're at a different point in their lives than the start of the show. I'm going to have them _grow_ into that point, and _become_ that person. I'll be updating whenever inspiration strikes, and it probably won't be until I've edited and uploaded the final chapter of my Franada fic. I'm writing for me this time around, so this story won't be dependent upon reviews, but (!) reviews inspire me to write and write faster. Without further babble, I own nothing, this applies to the whole story, I'll only be saying it once.**


	2. 1775

_**Update: This is 1775 parts one and two. Chapter Two: 1776 will be up soon. And for those of you reading my Franada fic, I'm dreadfully sorry, but it is on hiatus.**_

**One Year Ago:**

In the end, Alfred had to choose between Lexington and Concord. He had chosen Lexington, being one of the 77 minutemen there. He had stood on the green grass, seeing the black sky lighten into blue. Alfred had seen the sun rise, along with the sight of red coats marching on the horizon.

He had gripped his gun tightly, raising it to his shoulder and aiming as they stopped. His blood froze and his heart plummeted. There, just opposite Alfred, stood Arthur. He was wearing an official's uniform, signifying rank and importance. The colonist, as always, looked inferior to Arthur. He was wearing the clothes of his people, simple day-to-day clothes. No uniform had been provided yet. Arthur commanded nigh 400 men, while Alfred stood with his measly 77 in front of Buckman Tavern.

Alfred wasn't the real leader here, of course. That was Captain John Parker, who was suffering from tuberculosis. Alfred was here to enforce his orders. Parker knew they were outmatched and was not prepared to lay down his life like Alfred was.

"It's not a battle, boy," he said, voice rough and growled from his illness, "It's a skirmish. A brush of forces. Don't kill your men for something so stupid." He turned to his men without any prompting, yelling for them to disperse. As they did so, the Britons rushed forward, firing on the men. Alfred felt the bullets are surely as the other eight did.

He crumpled to his knees as he felt the death of his colonists, stomach lurching in protest. He was going to be sick. Alfred was on his hands and knees now, dry-heaving.

A gentle hand brushed back his hair. Its owner was kneeling beside him, whispering in his ear. "Alfred, lad, you don't know what war does. I don't want to hurt you any more, my boy. Come, we can go home, have a nice cuppa and forget all about this."

Alfred was still gagging. Panting harshly, the colonist shifted his weight onto one hand, using the other to wipe his mouth. "Don't touch me," he growled between gasping inhales.

Arthur stood. He barked two orders. His men dutifully picking Alfred off the ground and carrying him with them on their march to Concord carried one out; finding the militia's supplies was the second. Alfred walked defiantly with them. They would find nothing in Concord.

Once in Concord, Arthur was placed with a Regiment, due to his leader's orders. Alfred was with him, as he was his 'charge.' It was uneasy. The leader had left with more than a few other Regiments and companies, leaving Arthur with about 100 men. They were sorely outnumbered by colonists. In every pore of his being, with every nerve, Alfred knew they would not find the weapons.

Alfred didn't know anything. They went to Ephraim Jones's tavern, where the kindly older man refused them entry. He had stood with a mug and a dishrag in one hand, cleaning it while they held a gun at his forehead.

"Show me where the guns are," Arthur demanded harshly. Alfred stood a little ways behind him, blue eyes burning with righteous anger. Ephraim looked to him and Alfred saw his quiet, calm anger even through his reassuring smile.

"Follow me then, lobster backs," Ephraim answered, still cleaning that mug out. Alfred's teeth gritted as the British soldiers began digging. They took up the three massive 24-pound shooters, the trunnions, and gun carriages. He knew, he knew that Arthur could absolve him of his colony status at any time.

Formally make him a complete, whole, unionized part of the United Kingdom. He could do it in a heartbeat. Arthur had done it to Ireland. That's why it was dangerous to rebel. If the dice were played wrong, Alfred could be annexed and he would dissolve into nothing more than dust. The young colony was placing his bets on the fact that he could win against Arthur.

Reassuring himself that Arthur couldn't annex him right now, Alfred caught Ephraim's sad smile again and saw the nod. He watched as the man turned to the nearest redcoat and slammed that mug against his head. Alfred knew the terrible gift he had just been given and he didn't stay to watch the aftermath.

Like the coward he was, he ran.

Running on blind instinct, he ran to the North Bridge. He saw the two British companies retreating and gave him room to run to his own men, almost instinctively knowing who Alfred was.

It was a terrible thing, being a Nation. Or a Colony. Humans would know Alfred by instinct, but would never remember him. His own people, like Ephraim, would lay down their lives for him, but for a cause no one would ever remember. Alfred was a silent burden, a horrible punishment to the world. He would forever be alone, with no one but other Nations to stay. Bosses came and went, as seen with Arthur's monarchies.

Alfred smiled weakly among his men, seeing a triumphant Captain crow, "I'm not afraid to go, and I haven't a man that's afraid to go!" Alfred watched with warring emotions as they advanced. The Tories inside of him screamed to run back to Arthur, beg his forgiveness and be accepted back into the warm embrace that always smelled of black tea and musty books.

Alfred argued with himself, sinking to his knees and gripping his hair in between his hands. He was crying silently at what had transpired. Ephraim's sad smile would not disappear behind his closed eyes. Arthur's soft, tempting voice would not leave his ears. The sight of blood, the sounds of humans wailing as they were beaten or killed, the feel of his scratchy clothes gone limp and slick with blood, the coppery taste in his mouth, the feeling of each of his soldiers dying ripped through him. It was a torrent and a flood of memories and sensations, the minds of thousands of his people crying out for Alfred to save them. And he could do _nothing!_

The next time Alfred opened his eyes, he saw only three men obeying the Lieutenant. Alfred stumbled forward on hand and knees, screaming out to them, "Go!" it only caused confusion, and the panic welling inside Alfred didn't help his beloved colonists. It cascaded to a deafening pounding of blood in Alfred's ears as a shot rang out. Everything slowed and Alfred felt even his own heart slow.

The realization struck him with the force of a deadly blow to the solar plexus. It knocked the air out of him, made his elbows buckle and his world spin. With one slow heartbeat, Alfred felt Arthur's influence on his land. He saw the way this would end. With death, fear and unhappiness. He would either be the victor or he would be the one kneeling before Arthur.

Another steady beat of his heart and one ominous thought lay ahead.

_War._

Alfred would not surrender. The people's faith pulsed through him, strengthening the young colony. He could win. He would win. His voice thundered behind a Major's as they yelled, "Fire, for God's sake, fellow soldiers, fire!" A dark pleasure crawled through Alfred as he heard the booming sound of muskets firing in unison. The dark pleasure remained as he saw at least four British officers fall, and three privates die.

There was a raucous cheer as the regulars abandoned their men. Some colonists advanced. More retreated. Many went home to their loved ones. Moving to a hilltop a few hundred yards away, Alfred had the perfect view as Arthur met his shattered infantries along the road. He tersely waited for the order to fire, white-hot lead searing through his veins.

None was given. Some odd years later, Alfred would hear a retelling of this day, one proud old man saying to his grandchildren, "If we had fired, I believe we coulda' killed almost every officer that wa'r in the front, but we had no orders to fire, so there waren't a gun fired." That would be many years later, however. And right now, the liquid fire of anger still coursed through his veins.

It incited the men to terrible acts. As the regulars left to check on a farm where ammunition was said to have been hidden, one of the more twisted colonists began scalping an officer. He gave a loud, barbaric yawp as he returned to ranks, the prize clutched victoriously in his hand.

Alfred felt a slight sinking feeling when Arthur and his men returned, seeing the scalped corpse, placed in the middle of the bridge like a macabre trophy. The young colony heard the cries of outrage and saw the disgust in Arthur's emerald eyes as he looked up at Alfred.

His only reply was a smirk as he turned and walked away. The victorious colonist smiled as he saw the sun setting. Engraving the beautiful sight into his mind forever, Alfred knew that April 19th, 1775 had drawn to an end.

However, it was an almost immediate retaliation. His heart was put in almost vice-like grips in the Siege of Boston to drive the militiamen out, but Alfred could not be there to stand with his city. Instead he was in Fort Ticonderoga on Lake Champlain. Trying to capture a part of his brother. One that he had owned once upon a time. He was in Quebec.

A man named Allen was elected Colonel. That was all Alfred needed to know. He was a ghost that wouldn't do anything but rattle the floor or have the most devastating effect possible on the war. It was a dangerous balance to walk.

He had sat with about 100 men at night, freezing. They had huddled for warmth, sharing scraps of blankets over their uniforms that had recently been issued.

Along with them was the Continental Army. It was the first military organization ever in the colony. It both terrified and excited Alfred.

They didn't sleep that night. Alfred wouldn't, for the sake of not appearing weak. His colonists tried to make him sleep, giving him warmth, giving him the last dregs of the horrid lukewarm coffee (they thought it would put him to sleep for some reason), but eventually gave up. The sky was a pale blue and the sun was casting sleepy rays that didn't quite touch the ground. A gentle fog blanketed the lake, wrapping everything in a grey haze, somehow numbing Alfred's senses.

He felt hyperaware, almost like he was sharp to the touch. Every noise startled him (the snapping branches of a soldier walking perimeter). Every movement drew his attention (the vague movements of a man drinking coffee). No smell went unnoticed (the smell of smoke lingered in the air, sweet and cloying). His taste had amplified (the heady flavor of the coffee clung to his mouth, sharply contrasting with the sharp taste of the mint leaf Alfred was chewing). Alfred's skin was electrified (the wool of his jacket's cuff chafed at his wrist, occasionally breaking the silence by rustling gently).

They needed this fort. Needed it for the control of Canada's waterways. If the colonists owned it, then they could control which waterways the British used in attacking them. They needed this. He couldn't regret this. Matthew had chosen his side. Right now, they weren't brothers. (Some deep, buried part of him ached for the home in which Matthew sitting quietly in front of a fire, reading. Alfred would already have been asleep, head resting in Arthur's lap; the Briton sipping tea and listening quietly.)

Advancing quietly, Alfred watched from the lines of soldiers as Allen and another officer (His name was important. Arnie? Aaron?). The sentry was asleep. Allen seized the opportunity, striking the boy across the head and taking his weapons. The blow hadn't knocked him unconscious, and he merely gave the officers what they wanted, knowing he was outnumbered, with a small gesture upstairs. Slowly, ever so slowly, they crept up the stairs. Every slight rustle of fabric or the sharp tap of a gun against a belt buckle had the men freeze and wait, breathing stilled in their throats. As one of the first up to the rooms and bunks of the British soldiers, Alfred breathed a sigh of relief.

Asleep. The thought almost made him laugh absurdly. They were all asleep. Without a single shot fired, it was done. The fort was theirs. All theirs. Alfred puffed his chest triumphantly. He'd like to see England use Canada to attack him now. With that thought, and the now awake rays of sun touching his back, Alfred turned away from the fort, eager to see American soil once more. It wasn't before a flicker of a silhouette on a hill about half a mile away caught his eye.

Familiar blonde hair curled delicately around the stranger's chin, vaguely reminding Alfred of Francis. Well, how curious. He hadn't expected the Frenchman to be in Canada. Then black, white-buttoned cuffs of the British uniform caught his eye. Glancing down, Alfred stared briefly at his own red, black-buttoned cuffs before looking up. That wasn't Francis. That was Matthew, and he was glaring at Alfred, violet eyes hard and as icy as the moon's touch on this arctic wasteland of Canada. It certainly explained the growling polar bear. Alfred couldn't actually hear the growls, but the slight tremor of it's edge gave it away.

Alfred had never been gladder to leave. He had to be in England soon anyway.


End file.
